


Phil Coulson's Adventures in Doggysitting

by faeleverte



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, No animals were harmed in the making of this fic, love chicken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 03:50:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14608668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faeleverte/pseuds/faeleverte
Summary: It's just watching an apartment and a dog for a week (or two. Three at the outside).Phil is a trained Agent of SHIELD. He's an excellent strategist. He can handle it.Probably.





	Phil Coulson's Adventures in Doggysitting

Phil clattered up the stairs to Clint’s apartment, Milkbone in his pocket and trepidation in his heart. Or something like that. It sounded more romantic in his head than _Phil trudged up the stairs with a dog treat and no clue what he was supposed to do with it._ He’d left work early, since his afternoon briefing with the assistant director had been cancelled, and he was anxious– both to get on with the favor for Clint and because of the favor for Clint.

He really had no idea what had possessed him to promise his assistance with apartment sitting for Clint during the one– maybe two, three at the _outside_ – weeks he was to be gone for Avengers business on the opposite coast. They’d been dating for nearly half a year, since they’d met on a joint SHIELD/Avengers op. Phil had no idea exactly what had caused Clint to do a double-take on their first introduction, giving Phil a lazy kind of smile and a playful wink. Not knowing what started it hadn’t stopped Phil from going right along with banter on comms during the mission and agreeing to coffee after it had ended. By the time they’d left the coffeeshop in search of actual supper, Phil had been hooked.

Usually, Clint left his building and dog in care of his protogé Young Avenger, Kate Bishop. Kate had her own plans to be away, and Clint had asked Phil, shyly and carefully, if he could check in from time to time. Phil had agreed quickly, and the grin he got in response had made him think any trouble would be worth the effort. 

Sure, it was no problem to collect the mail and make certain nothing started growing in the refrigerator. Clint didn’t even have plants that needed watering, since the only thing leafy in the whole place was a plastic ivy Christmas wreath that Clint had apparently forgotten to take down ten months before. Not like Phil needed to go to an apartment everyday to keep it from running off or dying or something.

No, the real problem was that Phil didn’t have a _clue_ what to do about Clint’s dog.

Growing up, Phil hadn’t had much experience with dogs. He didn’t yearn toward drooly, hairy pets like television shows always said kids did. They’d had a cat, an ancient, terrible thing that lived on a spare chair under the dining table and made ugly noises at anyone who came too close. Phil had loved her, in his way. It was easy. Faith didn’t want to be touched, and Phil didn’t want to touch her (she looked like she might fall apart at the slightest bump, for one thing), so they’d gotten along perfectly. Childhood friends had owned dogs, Phil was certain. He could even remember a few of them getting involved in neighborhood games of stickball or frisbee. He _thought_ he remembered spending a couple of sleepovers with something heavy and snoring on his legs. But that might have just been Jamie, his best friend, instead of Jamie’s dog, Cooter. 

Which highlighted another problem Phil had with dogs. Why were their names so…ridiculous. Cooter, Cheery, Banjo. Even Lucky, while a mostly unoffensive name for a pet, seemed a little too cutesy for Phil’s taste. Why weren’t all animals given human-type names with some kind of dignity? By and large, classy names seemed standard for cats, at least in Phil’s circle of friends and acquaintances. Dogs, though, well, _he_ certainly wouldn’t be caught dead standing in the park shouting for “StinkyPoo” to come back to him. 

Phil _really_ hoped that name he’d heard at a park a few months ago was courtesy the small child behind the shouting woman and not the woman herself. 

When Phil first agreed to watch the place, he had asked about Lucky. Clint, still smiling that beautiful smile, had slowly pressed Phil into the back of the couch and whispered “Don’t worry about him,” and then climbed into Phil’s lap. With one thing and another (and then _another_ , which Phil hadn’t really thought either of them were young enough to do), they never had gotten around to discussing the actual Care and Feeding of Lucky Barton. How hard could it be, though? Food. Water. Walk. Right?

Opening the door took a few minutes as Phil worked and wiggled the key in the lock to get the right angle to flip the tumblers. As soon as Phil got the door open, he found himself plastered to the far side of the hallway. Lucky, large and yellow, panted up into Phil’s face. His tail swished so hard he looked like a very oddly shaped helicopter that slobbered all over the front of Phil’s shirt.

“Good dog, Lucky,” Phil told him solemnly, tentatively patting his head with a light hand. That’s what you did with dogs, right? Patted them? He patted two more times, carefully, directly between Lucky’s ears. His brain whirled as he tried to remember what Clint did when Lucky jumped on him. “Good dog. Get…get down.”

Lucky’s front paws dropped obediently to the scarred tile of the hallway floor, tail swooshing behind him in a wide arc. His butt wiggled a little with the intensity of his joy at having company. Phil chewed his lip for a moment, wondering exactly what Lucky expected of him next. 

“Oh God.” Phil carefully patted his hand against the top of Lucky’s head again. “And Clint has only been gone three hours.”

How were they _ever_ going to make it through the entire week? Would Lucky’s enthusiastic greetings only get worse? Maybe Phil should start going home before going to care for Lucky. Jeans would probably last longer under Happy Dog Onslaught than Phil’s suits would.

Phil checked Lucky’s bowl for food (half-full), figured out how to operate the leash (which would have taken less time if Lucky hadn’t kept twisting his head around backwards as if wondering why in the world Phil was back there instead of up in licking range), and took Lucky out to do his business. It was a complicated process, with Lucky stopping at every hydrant, light post, tree, trash receptacle, and newspaper box. He didn’t pull at the leash so much as just ignore it, wandering around in an aimless fashion without ever quite straining for too much distance. Phil vaguely had the impression that dogs were supposed to walk along right by the side of the person walking them. But which side? And maybe that was just the law enforcement dogs he’d worked with. Maybe pet dogs were different. 

Lucky finally found a scrap of grass to do the rest of his business. Phil waited, looking off into the distance to give the dog some privacy, then he scooped it up with a plastic bag, gingerly held away from his body until they got to the next trash can. They turned back toward the building. 

Phil was right on the verge of congratulating himself for successful handling of his mission when he discovered the bag of dog food was nearly empty. He wondered where and how one went about buying another bag that big. He was fairly certain he’d seen a few smaller bags at convenience stores. Maybe he could get by with just getting several of those. How much did Lucky need to eat, anyway? How much food would he go through in a week (or two, or dear Lord please not three)?

Phil hung Lucky’s leash on the hook near the door, told Lucky to stay, and trotted back down the steps. He’d start with two of the small bags, and, if that ran out, he’d find a pet store and hire a car to transport himself and fifty pounds of dog food back to Clint’s. Surely Clint would be back before he had to do it a second time.

Three hours, two corner stores and one grocery store later, Phil finally returned to Clint’s apartment. He trotted up the stairs, arms full of two smallish bags of crunchy dog food ( _Good for dental and overall health!_ ) and one more paper bag that carried a few canned food varieties and three toys, only to drop all of it when he arrived outside Clint’s door.

It was ajar. 

Phil specifically remembered working and wiggling the key around until the bolt had locked. He’d even turned the knob and pushed on it, to make _certain_ he had secured it. He eased his shoulder against the door to open it further, sidearm already drawn and held ready. 

There weren’t many (any) good hiding spaces in the long main room. Phil threw open each cupboard, just to be certain no particularly bendy assassins had crawled into a tight corner (that had only happened twice in his experience, but better safe than sorry). He checked behind the curtains covering the large case board by the kitchen bar. He made certain that the bookcases were pressed firmly back against the brick and then crept carefully up the stairs, staying low enough that his gun was covering his face when it got higher than the floor in the open loft above. 

Clint had two pairs of shoes– one purple Converse, one black dress– under his bed. The curtain across his closet was pulled wide, and the bathroom door stood open. Phil checked the bathroom first, clearing the shower stall and looking behind the door (and how many baby agents had he needed to explain _that_ lesson to?). Then he peered into the depths of Clint’s closet, checking that no one hid in the corners or behind the heap of laundry to one side. To be absolutely certain, he stepped back to check the shelf at the top of the closet and scanned all across the ceiling. 

No bad guys, powered or otherwise. Unless they were invisible, which was a thing Phil decided he couldn’t be expected to compensate for, anyway; he put his gun away and went back to retrieve Lucky’s food from the hall. And stopped halfway down the steps, one foot in the air.

There was no Lucky anywhere in the apartment. His heart skipped one beat. Then hitched awkwardly through the next. 

Okay. This looked bad. But Phil was a Senior Agent of SHIELD, and he could handle it. No need to panic. All he had to do was find the dog. Clint’s dog. Clint’s beloved pet dog, that Phil was fairly certain Clint lo– liked more than people, Phil included. 

Maybe he should panic.

Phil got a grip on himself, forced his breathing steady and made a plan. First, he scooped the bags out of the hall, closed Clint’s door, and then he started to scour the building, hoping Lucky hadn’t gone too far.

Why hadn’t Clint warned him that the dog knew how to get out? If the dog _had_ gotten out. But there were no tool marks around the doorframe or doorknob, indicating a break-in. The windows had all been secured from the inside (he’d checked while looking for spooks). The only explanation he could possibly come up with was that Lucky had jumped up, unlocked the deadbolt and then, somehow, turned the knob with his mouth. After not finding the dog in any hallway in the building, Phil got ready to knock on doors. 

He was reaching for the first one when it occurred to him that his work suit and overall Government Goon look was maybe not the best way to go about enlisting help from Clint’s neighbors. He ran back to the top floor, leaned against the inside of Clint’s door while he caught his breath, and then ran up to the loft to rifle through Clint’s closet. He really hoped Clint wouldn’t mind, but desperate times and all that.

Five minutes later, Clint’s jeans squeezing his bottom with an unfamiliar intimacy, one of Clint’s white t-shirts making his chest declare “I aim to hit my mark”, and the purple Converse only a _little_ too long, Phil started next door to Clint to check the rest of the apartments in an orderly fashion.

*****

Two and a half hours later, Phil still wasn’t sure what had happened to him. At first, it had seemed fairly normal. The door had been opened by a young person of indeterminate gender who had listened politely, if reservedly, to Phil explaining who he was and his current mission. And then he’d been dragged inside and firmly seated on a large floor cushion. The neighbor had begun an increasingly frantic telephone chain that apparently led to everyone in the building immediately joining the hunt for Lucky. 

“We’re meeting inside the front door,” they told Phil firmly. “We’re organizing a search.”

Phil followed them down to the first floor and found himself shunted to one side while everyone was handed their assignments. Eventually, Phil was given one, too.

First, he had helped an elderly woman to the roof and then back to the ground floor, helped her off her _own_ floor six times as she’d looked under furniture (never mind that Lucky could not possibly have fit under her couch, let alone her fridge). Next, he’d been handed three cats at one time to hold onto “so they wouldn’t run into the hall” in another apartment. Phil really hoped Clint would forgive the seven small holes in the t-shirt he’d borrowed. He’d been ordered into closets, basement storage space, and through a door that _looked_ like the front door of an apartment, but was apparently a portal into a junk-storage alternate universe. Or maybe just the home of someone with an anxiety disorder and an unhealthy attachment to a lot of things.

Phil had tried to be extra kind to the man as he’d picked his way carefully around stacks, calling “Here, Lucky! Heeeeere, Lucky! Here doggy doggy!” 

The man had laughed at him, clapping him firmly on the shoulder and saying “You’re not much used to dogs, are you?”

Phil decided to take it as a neighborly kind of tease. It took less emotional energy than being offended, and, well, the guy wasn’t wrong. By the time Phil (and a dozen other people) finally concluded that Lucky was _not_ to be found in the building, it had gotten dark. Four people invited Phil to stay for supper, but Phil thanked them all graciously and refused. He didn’t much feel like eating. What kind of boyfriend would he be if he lost Clint’s dog on the first day of apartment-sitting? 

The dumped kind. 

Phil took to the streets, whistling the way the man in the National Geographic maze had demonstrated and calling Lucky’s name up every alley he came to. As he walked along, he glumly imagined the way SHIELD’s gossip network would sing when it heard about his breakup. 

“That’s Coulson. He dated an Avenger for about six months. No one knows how he managed to get one in the first place, but then he did something _really dumb_ and screwed up the best thing that ever could have happened to him, poor dear. He agreed to apartment sit, and then he lost Hawkeye’s dog.”

The worst of it, the _worst_ of it was that Clint being an Avenger was the least of things to recommend him. In fact, it was actually the primary negative. Clint was handsome and funny, smart and sweet, loyal and kind, and always, _always_ dedicated to helping everyone around him without ever asking for anything for himself. Unfortunately, being an Avenger put him in near-constant danger. He was gone weird hours for indeterminate amounts of time. He came home hurt and exhausted, usually so much so that for a week or two afterward, as soon as he landed on a couch (his own or Phil’s) at the end of a dinner date, he promptly fell asleep for the night. They’d spent at least half of their nights together in separate rooms after Phil tucked Clint under a blanket and carefully removed his shoes. 

The guy was a hero and he needed his rest.

After three solid hours of walking, Phil was ready to call it a night. He’d stopped four muggings (one of them against himself), two drunken brawls, broken up a fight between a couple of sex workers, and stopped one pimp from beating his girl for the night. And probably for several more nights to come; it was hard to hit someone with your arm in traction. He’d consumed one slightly dodgy street taco (his usual mission food of choice), had two bottles of water, and he had seen and smelled things his clothing and hair and probably his very _skin_ wouldn’t forget any time soon.

What he _hadn’t_ seen was the slightest glimpse of a one-eyed, limping dog.

Phil mopped his hand over his face, wishing he hadn’t left his handkerchief back in his suit pants at Clint’s. He wished he had a cup of coffee. And maybe his cellphone, which was lying on Clint’s counter, forgotten in Phil’s rush after changing out of his suit. He’d call a cab or an Uber, if he had his phone. Since he didn’t, though, he turned wearily around to go back the way he’d come. Three blocks from Clint’s building, a miracle happened. 

“Wuff.” 

Phil froze, carefully peering into the dark alley. He wished again for his phone, so he’d have a light. 

_Whimper_.

Phil edged carefully into the dark space. 

“Lucky?” He tried to keep his voice very light, the way he talked to scared civilians after ops had blown sky high. “Hey, there, fella. Good boy. Come on, Lucky. Come here.”

A dingy pile of fur carefully ambled toward him. Phil couldn’t see particularly well, but he heaved a giant sigh of relief when the light from the street glittered off of a single eye. Whatever prayers he’d been subconsciously saying had apparently reached some generous deity or other. He’d found Lucky. All he needed to do was figure out a way to get him home.

*****

Phil was wrong. Getting Lucky home was the easy part. He ambled along right at Phil’s hip, happily accepting bites of hotdogs from the 7-Eleven around the corner from where he’d been found. He even followed Phil up the steps instead of taking off at top speed for the top floor like he did after Clint and Phil had taken him for an evening amble the week before. Inside the apartment, he nosed around the first floor before going back to where Phil stood in the kitchen, sitting by his foot and looking up with one big, pleading eye.

“Oh!” Phil looked at the bags on the counter, at the empty bowl on the floor, and back to the dog. “You’re hungry! Hang on!” 

He pulled out a can. 

“I guess having an adventure for the day, you probably want something good.” He picked up the bowl, popped the top of the can open, and dumped it in. “And probably water, too.”

When Lucky was done eating and drinking, Phil leaned over to pat his head again. 

“God, you’re filthy.” He glanced around Clint’s loft. The couch was old but had recently had the dog hair vacuumed off of it. The rugs had been freshly shaken. And Clint’s bed, when Phil had gone upstairs earlier, was freshly made. The dirty sheets had been in the closet, at the very top of the pile. “How the hell did you get so dirty in under six hours? Can’t let you mess Clint’s place up like that. How the hell does one clean a dog?”

The sink was out: Lucky would never fit. There was no tub in the bathroom, only a reasonably large shower stall with several tiles missing from various places around the walls. However, it was heading toward midnight, and Phil was fairly certain no dog groomers were open at that time. It didn’t seem like a veterinary emergency, so the number on a magnet on the fridge was useless. So, gathering up his courage, Phil went upstairs to find thinner clothing that would bog down in the water less and turned on the shower.

*****

Showering with a dog was not a way to get optimal, clean results.

By the time the water ran cold, the low ceiling of the bathroom was dripping. Two more tiles had slid off the wall outside the shower (only one more inside), the toilet paper roll on the holder had bloomed up to twice the original size, and the mirror over the sink was less _fogged over_ and more _waterlogged_. Lucky was only barely cleaner, and Phil had gone from clean to slightly gritty from scalp to bare feet. He would only have qualified as a contestant in a particularly violent wet T-shirt contest, given that Clint’s undershirt was ripped from collar to hem by one fearful jump that had nearly gotten Lucky all the way to the toilet seat. 

Still. Some of the dirt had gone down the drain. Phil would call a groomer in the morning. In the meantime, he needed to go back to his apartment and–

_Shit_.

He leaned his head against the wet tile and looked down at Lucky, shivering in the middle of the tiny bathroom floor. Phil’s building didn’t allow animals, not even animal visitors. He couldn’t just go off and leave Lucky alone in the apartment. He had already gotten out once, and Phil didn’t want to chase him down again. Besides, anything could happen to Lucky alone outdoors: hit by a car; bit by a rabid sewer rat; eat something to upset his stomach; not have a convenience store with cooked hotdogs nearby upon being found. No. Phil couldn’t risk it. He grabbed one of the handful of leashes from the hook behind the door and leaned down to clip it to Lucky’s collar.

Except Lucky wasn’t wearing a collar. 

A search around the apartment found a spare purple collar under a sofa cushion (Phil wasn’t going to ask; he’d left all kinds of things in the sofa in the past), and Lucky stood quietly while Phil buckled it around his neck, tail swishing happily. Phil called for a cab, not wanting to play roulette with getting one that would accept a pet passenger, and they set off on the next adventure for the night.

*****

“Seriously, Jasper,” Phil held the leash out and willed Lucky to get more soulful with the eye. “I just have to run over to my building to get a couple changes of clothes, and then I’ll be back to get him. Ten minutes. Promise.”

Jasper attempted to glare at Phil while propping himself up on the doorframe. The expression was somewhat thwarted by the way his glasses sat a little crooked on his face and by the impression of a crinkled sheet on his cheek. 

“Ten minutes. And then I’m putting him out on the street.”

“I’ll hurry.”

Phil meant to actually be back in the allotted time. He really did, but SHIELD waits for no one, and the thirty minutes he had to spend on his computer, hurriedly scanning through the digital equivalent of reams of paper to find the probable password for a probably powered person’s bank account had Phil ready to scream. Or fall over and sleep on the floor. One or the other. He collected his go-bag and his C-PAP case and raced back down the street to Jasper’s, a million apologies on his lips.

“No problem, man.” Jasper leaned down to scratch Lucky around the ears. “Seriously. Every time Gertie’s damn ambulatory dustmop of a dog barked, he barked right back. If I didn’t have to leave tomorrow for Morocco, I’d take him for you the whole week.”

Phil clutched Lucky’s leash a little tighter in his fist. 

“ _That_ wouldn’t be necessary.” He patted Lucky’s head gently, and the dog opened his mouth in what looked like a generally happy way, tail waving gently. “I promised Clint I’d take care of his place. His place has Lucky. I’ll manage just fine.”

Jasper’s dimple deepened. “Gotcha. Trying to impress the boyfriend.”

“Why don’t you just move into a place that doesn’t allow pets,” Phil asked, trying not to feel smug when Lucky leaned against his leg, “if your neighbor’s dog bothers you so much?”

“Eh,” Jasper just shrugged, “Might want to get a cat again someday. And it’s not like I’ve been home enough to be bothered much lately.”

Phil thanked him again and turned toward the door.

“Thanks, though,” he finally remembered his manners enough to add. “For watching Lucky. I _really_ didn’t want to have to go looking again!”

He took Lucky down to the newly called-for cab and the ride across town to home. Clint’s home. Lucky’s home. Phil’s temporary place to stay. He wasn’t going to let Lucky out of his sight until Clint returned. Clearly, the breaking out was an attempt to find his master. And, while Phil wasn’t Clint, he could certainly win the dog over enough to keep him close and safe. 

He reached over again to tentatively pat Lucky on the head. Lucky’s tail thumped against his leg, and they both sighed heavily. They were going to be just fine together.

*****

Phil had no idea what he was doing or how he and the dog were supposed to survive a week. Maybe two. Three at the outside. _Oh please don’t let it be three_.

He lay on Clint’s bed, uncomfortably aware of how much the pillow smelled like the bed’s usual occupant, listening to the unsteady click-click-clatter of Lucky’s toenails over the wooden floors on the lower level of the loft. Lucky had been pacing since Phil had locked the door, securing the anti-invasion bolt to keep Lucky from magically unlocking the door and disappearing again. Phil had even checked the window locks, just to be sure. Lucky, though, couldn’t seem to settle. He paced from the kitchen to the windows and back, trotted halfway up the stairs and then turned around without pausing to go all the way across the length of the lower room and back. 

The sound was enough to drive anyone mad.

“Lucky! Come on, boy! Come up here.” Phil patted the mattress hard enough to make the sound carry. “Come on. Sleep by me. I know I’m not Clint, but I’m all you’ve got right now.”

The pawsteps paused and then carried on again, still a little drunk-sounding. Phil figured that must be from the limp leftover from the car accident Lucky’d had the night Clint found him. Finally, unable to take it any longer, Phil stood up and went to the top of the stairs. 

“Come _on_ , Lucky!” He pointed imperiously at the bed as Lucky turned around and tilted his head, good eye up and then down. “Bed! Bed, Lucky! Bed!”

They stood there in a very uneven staring match for several minutes, and then Lucky looked down at his paws, and Phil gave an exasperated huff. He stomped down the steps, grabbing the leash from where he’d wrapped it around the metal handrail on the way up. Lucky cowered when Phil towered over him, and Phil felt like he’d been slapped.

“Oh, Lucky! I’m sorry!” He quickly dropped to his knees, getting his face on level with Lucky’s and trying to seem small and tame. “I didn’t mean to scare you! Good dog, Lucky! Good dog!”

Lucky stretched forward to tentatively sniff his fingers, and then took a hesitant step closer, licking Phil’s knuckles with a hot, wet tongue. 

“Good dog,” Phil murmured, carefully reaching forward to clip the lead to Lucky’s collar. “There you go. Good dog!”

Lucky wagged his tail in a slow sweep across the floor and stood up, looking expectantly at Phil when he also stood. He blinked at Phil and then looked toward the door, then blinked at Phil again. _Oh lord. Now he expects walks at 3 am._ Phil heaved a sigh and dropped the leash to go upstairs and put his pants back on. 

By the time they’d both returned to the apartment, Phil had mostly given up on sleep. He also suspected he could blame no one but himself and nothing but the hot dog he’d used to coax the dog home. So, lesson learned. He didn’t unclip the leash until they were both up the stairs and on the bed. Phil’s alarm would go off in two hours unless he did something about it, so, as Lucky turned a few circles on the bed and then settled down with his head on Phil’s hip, Phil called the SHIELD HR line. The person who answered acted very calm and professional, but Phil had a feeling that there were several people overseeing his accrued vacation time that would dance a jig at him finally cashing some of it in. Not that they’d be likely to believe a single word as to _why_ he wanted off. They all knew he wasn’t a dog person.

Lucky sighed deeply and started to drool on Phil’s stomach where his t-shirt had ridden up as he’d gotten in bed. At least the dog, Clint’s rugs, and Phil were all safe for the night. One day down. Six to thirteen– twenty at the outside– more to go.

*****  
Lucky didn’t move again until eleven o’clock. By then, Phil had showered off the rest of mud and dog hair from the shared shower the night before, had one and a half pots of coffee, and was padding about in a pair of Clint’s sweatpants and a borrowed t-shirt. It wasn’t that he hadn’t brought his own casual clothes, it was just that Clint’s…well, Clint’s clothing smelled like Clint’s detergent and apartment. And maybe Phil was missing him just a little more than he thought he would. 

Over their few short months together, separations and long days (and sometimes weeks) without even being able to call had been their norm. But they’d spend most of the last week together, from the time Phil got off in the evening until he had to tuck himself back into his suit to head into work the next morning. Twelve hours of uninterrupted Clint time had spoiled Phil, and he was willing to admit– if only to himself and Lucky– that he was actually glad for the excuse to stay at Clint’s place a little longer. 

In spite of the sparseness of the furniture, it felt more lived-in than Phil’s apartment. The books were cluttered on the shelves in no particular order, proving they were read and reread, taken down and thumbed through. The kitchen had been thoroughly scoured before Clint had left, but there was still the small stack of mail beside the coffeepot and several coffee ring stains on the cheap linoleum. Cooking utensils hung neatly behind the stove, several of them with small melted spots at the edges that proved they been used plenty of times. A kettle sat on the stove, always ready to be filled and heated up to make a cup of tea. 

Phil’s apartment looked like it had been styled for a For Rent ad and never occupied. Which was…accurate, really. Phil wasn’t there much, and when he was, he spent most of the time sleeping and recuperating from work. He somehow couldn’t bring himself to actually decorate the place the way he’d like it to be, because no one but himself ever saw it.

And _that_ was a depressing thought.

Before he could lose himself entirely in maudlin moping over his solitary lifestyle, Lucky woke up with a loud yawn that Phil could hear from the couch down below. His paws made a quiet thump as he jumped off the bed, and he trotted quickly down the stairs, tail waving and his tongue hanging out the side of his open mouth. Phil assumed that was a happy look. The bright bark and hand lick he received from the dog made him inclined to think he was right.

He’d called around and found a dog groomer not too far away and made an appointment for the afternoon. Not really knowing anything about dog grooming, he’d gone ahead and booked the highest price service. It included a flea and tick bath, which Phil figured Lucky might need; who knew what he’d picked up in that disgusting alley he’d been found in. He gave Lucky lunch, had another toaster pastry from the box he’d found in Clint’s cabinet, and finished off the second pot of coffee just in time to take Lucky to the groomer. 

He didn’t expect to have to shuffle the poor dog through the door on its bottom.

Still, though, the people seemed to know what they were doing, and Lucky was shyly wagging by the time the young woman with a long ponytail came out to claim him. 

“It’ll be a couple of hours, because we’ve got a little backlog and there’ll be a wait after the dip.” She patted Lucky’s head and handed him a doggy biscuit. “So all we need is a color, and you can go somewhere else for a couple hours until we’re done.”

“Purple,” Phil told her firmly, not certain _why_ they needed a color for Lucky, but confident in what Clint’s answer would be. Really, it was the first time he’d felt confident in _anything_ since the evening before, and it cheered him up a little to know he’d gotten something right.

Lucky whined a little when Phil patted his head softly and told him goodbye, but Phil assured him he would be fine with the nice groomers and turned to go. He figured he should get some grocery shopping done while he knew Lucky was in a place he couldn’t escape and run the streets.

Most likely.

Phil ducked back in and quickly told the receptionist, “Lucky is a runner. Better keep an eye out.”

Then he headed back out the door, calling for a SHIELD car so he wouldn’t have to wrestle with a dog and groceries in a cab. He almost felt guilty for abusing government resources like that, but then he remembered the pimp from the night before and decided he could justify it in the name of safety, his and an Avenger’s dog. The handbook was very clear about calling for transport _before_ bullets started flying.

Not that Phil was usually very good about following the rules. 

Especially not that one.

***** 

When Phil finally got the call to return to the groomer’s, he’d successfully collected groceries and found a hardware store to get the supplies necessary to replace the tiles he and Lucky had knocked off the day before. He’d also swung by a department store to get an iron, since he had a sneaking suspicion he wouldn’t be able to find one at Clint’s place (it wasn’t that he doubted that Clint _had_ one, so much as he doubted his own ability to follow Clint’s logic to locate it). He walked into the building, gave his name and the name of the dog, and waited.

Turns out, he wasn’t prepared for the dog that bounded out to meet him, tail waving in a feathered curve over his back. Lucky looked so much fluffier than he had after Phil’s attempt at bathing him. His ears were darker than Phil remembered, while the rest of his coat was lighter. He was also, most unexpectedly of all, wearing a neat purple bow over each ear, and the nails that peeped out from the short golden fur around his toes were painted in a bright lavender to coordinate. Phil felt his mouth hang open for a moment before he collected himself and leaned down to pat Lucky’s head, right between the bows.

Lucky wiggled with the force of his tail-wag, but he still sat patiently, panting hot dog breath up into Phil’s face, every perfectly combed inch of him radiating excitement and bliss. No wonder Clint was a dog person. Phil patted him again.

“Wow, Luck,” Phil told him, “you look absolutely, um, beautiful.”

How gender-forward of the groomer, to realize that there was no reason a boy dog couldn’t feel pretty, too. Should Lucky need another bath, however, Phil thought he might go down a notch or two in price. Enough to leave out the nail polish, at the very least. He wondered if that was exactly healthy, but he suspected that the groomer wouldn’t be allowed to do it if it weren’t. 

“Lucky was very good,” the receptionist told Phil as he paid. “Please come back again soon!”

It was probably the amount he put on his credit card and _not_ Lucky’s behavior that made her sound so sincere. Still, Lucky _did_ look good, and he carried himself like he knew it. He stood for a pet from the SHIELD driver, wagging happily and smiling all over his one-eyed face. Lucky _was_ a good dog, and Phil started to regain his certainty that he and Lucky would not only survive a week together, but _thrive_.

*****

Lucky was going to have the best week (or two, three at the outside) Phil could possibly give him, which, granted, probably wasn’t as great at Clint could do. But Phil was determined to do his best. Unfortunately, Phil was having trouble doing his best at his secondary project. 

He’d gotten a few more loose tiles off of the walls, but he was finding that more of them were loose than attached. And he hadn’t actually been _trying_ to remove the tiles when they started coming off. At least nine of them had hit the floor and broken (or broken the tile they landed on), and Phil had gotten so frantic trying to catch them that he’d managed to poke a hole in the wallboard behind. He finally gave up for the evening and went to microwave himself a hotdog to go with the carton of coleslaw he’d gotten at the store.

“Well, Luck.” He scraped a small-chopped hotdog into Lucky’s bowl and took his own supper to a stool at the bar. “I _thought_ I knew how to do this. I went back and watched a YouTube video on doing it. But I don’t think _any_ how-to had this bathroom in mind.”

He thoughtfully for a moment, watching Lucky delicate nip up a single piece of hotdog at a time. He had the passing thought that he hoped it didn’t make Lucky’s stomach quite as… _volatile_ as it had the night before, but it was a better quality hotdog, and it hadn’t been sitting under a warmer for half the night. 

“I’m really starting to think we’re going to have to retile the whole room.” 

Lucky glanced up at him, wagging politely once before going back to his hotdog nibbles. Phil decided to take that as agreement. All he had to do was figure out how to keep Lucky well-contained in the house. He looked around for inspiration.

Really, he could put Lucky on his leash and tie him to the metal railing that ran up the stairs. Or tie him to the stairs themselves. But that seemed like an overall bad idea; if Lucky got tangled and Phil got stuck waiting at the hardware store, who _knew_ what could happen. He couldn’t just leave Lucky waiting on him. And he couldn’t take the dog back to Jasper’s place again; Jasper never made it home before all the stores closed. Lord knew, Phil had listened to the rants about that often enough. He knew Clint sometimes left Lucky in the care of a neighbor, but Phil had no idea which neighbor. He didn’t want to leave him in the magazine maze for fear of what damage the dog could do in there. He didn’t want to leave him with the elderly woman on the first floor, because Phil wasn’t sure she remembered that Lucky was a dog, and he wasn’t convinced she’d remember that she was watching one. Anyway, it seemed rude to leave the dog with someone else when Lucky was supposed to be _his_ responsibility right then.

Alternatively, he could call for a company car again and just leave the dog in it with the driver once he got to the store. Again, though, if he got caught up, anything could happen. The car could be called away to shuttle someone else, leaving Lucky stranded outside the store with no one to watch him. Besides, leaving the car on to keep the air running would be horribly wasteful of gasoline, which was bought with taxpayer money. Besides-besides, the Director had begun the new enviro-friendly waste management plan, and it included very specific orders in regards to the use of fuel and output of emissions. Phil himself been on the panel that looked over it before it had gone out, because he considered himself a _true_ friend to the environment and because he was one of the few who could translate bureaucratese to plain language and had a high enough clearance to see that kind of thing before it was released through the ranks.

No. Phil needed to find a way to lock up the apartment in a way that Lucky couldn’t get out while still leaving himself a way to get back in. He decided to sleep on it and spent the evening on the couch, watching Clint’s DVR and patting Lucky’s head, which rested on his knee.

*****

Phil’s next brilliant plan worked great. 

Well, it _would_ have worked great, if he had known he would be climbing the stairs to Clint’s apartment carrying several extremely heavy boxes of tiles. Even then, climbing the inside staircase with them wouldn’t have been quite as taxing as trying to scale the ladder to the fire escape. Still, Lucky was locked securely in the apartment, door bolted and latched, and Phil could raise and lower the window, while Lucky was hampered from doing so by his lack of opposable thumbs. 

Phil decided to trust the dog just a little bit and used the indoor stairway for the final three trips it took to carry in all the supplies for his retiling adventure. The rented saw would be delivered by the store after lunch. 

The major problem was that Clint’s tile had been out-of-stock since about 1935, so Phil had been forced to choose something new for a man who was out of town. He’d decided to stick with something simple: plain white with a smooth, extremely durable surface. He was fairly certain they were roughly the same size as the original, once-green tiles, but brighter. Cleaner. Fresher. He was certain he had enough to go around the room, but the thought of retiling the entire shower stall made him balk just a little. Perhaps, once the main room was finished, he’d go back and look for a shower liner. Faster way to get a nice, clean, new surface. Also, it would mean he’d have fewer holes to patch, in the long run. And he’d be able to shower at his temporary home sooner.

Step one: removing all of the old tile and grout.

*****

The next morning, after another trip to the hardware store, Phil got busy on Step One: replacing all the plasterboard in the bathroom. His project was starting to get a little more involved than Phil had originally planned, but tile removal hadn’t gone as well as he’d envisioned. Instead of gently prying the still-stuck tiles free with a chisel, most of the ones still remaining had stuck. Hard. In trying to wiggle them free, new holes had appeared as the wallboard behind them had simply given in with a sigh that sounded like relief. When an entire three foot by two foot section had come out of the corner behind where the toilet had originally sat, Phil had finally caved to the inevitable. He’d closed the door on the bathroom and decided to begin afresh the next day.

He’d also discovered the nearest all-night convenience store with a public restroom. He’d also _also_ gone home and reinstalled the toilet. 

He’d had to pick up a second wax ring along with the wallboard and joint compound and tape and sandpaper and microfiber cloths for dusting. The helpful staff had loaded it all in his rental pickup truck (who knew that U-Haul had such things), and Phil parked illegally on the street in front of the building, hurrying up and down the stairs, badge ever at the ready should someone complain about his parking job. He took the truck back to the rental place and decided to walk home. Lucky was secure. The afternoon was nice. 

He stopped for a gyro on the way, reserving a few bites of meat without tzatziki to share with Lucky when he got home. 

Lucky was very appreciative. 

Something none of the videos he watched on YouTube told him: drywalling is a two-man job, if you’re going to use an old fashioned, human-powered hammer. He looked at the quarter-finished (if he was feeling generous with himself, which he was) walls, huffed a sigh, and reinstalled the toilet for the night.

What was one _more_ wax ring, really. In the grand scheme of things.

*****

That afternoon, Phil decided the unrelieved white and white and white of the tiles would make the whole place look too austere, too cold. He found a nice white octagonal tile interspersed with neat black squares that would look excellent at an angle, making the small space look more luxurious, maybe a little larger.

*****

Dropping the toilet against the edge of the sink left only the tiniest of chips in the enamel on the old, wall-mounted sink basin. Sadly, it left the toilet in four pieces instead of the original two. He found one of a similar, early twentieth-century look, and comforted himself with the fact that it was much more efficient and therefore much more environmentally friendly. He also figured the longer seat would suit Clint’s ridiculously long legs much better.

Phil really missed Clint’s legs. They were nice to look at. Fun to touch. Very nice to have wrapped around–

He dragged his mind out of _that_ gutter and finished purchasing the toilet and a sturdier seat than came with it originally. He’d learned his lesson about plastic bolts and midnight bathroom emergencies in the most horrific manner possible while staying the night with a one-night stand. He hadn’t _planned_ it to be a one-night stand, when he and the lady in question had first begun. 

Apparently there were some fiascos that no amount of sheepish apologies could smooth over.

*****

It took four solid days of starts and stops, but Phil finally got the tiling finished. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, Lucky sitting by his leg, and admired his work. Maybe not exactly up to a professional’s standards, but a damn sight better than it had been before. He eyed the one little bit where the line had gone a bit cattywampus critically, hoping that Clint’s famed eyes wouldn’t be _too_ bothered by it. 

“Well, Lucks,” he said, reaching down to touch his fingers to the dog’s head, ruffling the fur around one of the (still intact) bows, “that shower stall has _got_ to be dealt with. Although, maybe I should have done that before I started tiling. Oh god. I’ll have to retile the edges, won’t I.”

Lucky made a soft rumble of sound and leaned against his leg, as if trying to reassure him that everything would be fine. 

“Well, nothing to do about it now.” He flipped off the bathroom light and turned toward the stairs. “Let’s go have some supper and watch the last couple episodes of last season’s Dog Cops.”

Lucky wagged at him and led the way, plumey tail waving like a victory banner.

The shower install went better than the tile had gone. The only difficult moment came when Phil tried to get the old soap dish out of the mortar. Once he’d gotten the shattered remains up off the floor and had smoothed the remaining stump, the shower liner slid right in, leaving a gap of just about one-sixteenth of an inch around the edge. Phil didn't _quite_ leap in the air with a victory fist raised, but it was a near thing. All that was left was caulking the edge and letting it cure, then he could shower again. 

He sniffed himself gingerly. 

A shower smelled like a good idea. 

He went back to the bathroom to finish up. Surely he could safely shower before bed the next night.

*****

The next morning, he purchased a new shower faucet and knobs that fit better in the fresh, clean stall. He also made sure the head had a removable, handheld sprayer; it would make bathing the dog easier next time. Just in case.

The next evening’s shower really improved his mood. The clean sheets on the bed filled him with bliss.

Waking up to find chewed up bits of towel that Lucky had left around the bedroom and down the stairs did not.

*****

That afternoon, Phil again left Lucky barricaded into the apartment and went back to the hardware store. He picked out a decent-looking wall cabinet to hold towels safely out of canine reach, said hello to the sales associate in tile (who greeted him by name), and went back to Clint’s to install it. Then he returned to the hardware store for a drill and drywall anchors and then went home and _actually_ hung the cabinet.

He looked at it for a few minutes, removed it carefully from the wall, and went _back_ the hardware store for primer, paint, tape, a paint tray, a roller, and a few brushes. He hoped Clint wouldn’t object to white on white, but the nice woman who mixed the paint assured him that it was easy to clean with a durable gloss finish. While he was there, he also picked up a new faucet for the wall-mounted sink, which was in decent condition (minus the chip where the toilet had died) and only needed a new drain cover. And faucet.

*****

The next day he chose a new sink bowl and a half-cabinet that wouldn’t take up too much room but would provide adequate storage for the replacement toilet paper he’d bought after drowning the bathroom. He got a nice towel bar to hang beneath the new towel cabinet and a small towel ring to hang beside the sink. They matched the new sink faucet and handles. While he had the rental truck (again), he stopped at a department store and purchased a new shower curtain– black with white, stylized arrows all over it– and a new bathmat in a dark plum. It had a thick rubber backing that Phil figured would slip on the new tile less than his foot had (Lucky had licked the bump on the back of his head for him, but it hadn’t noticeably helped the pain). He also bought a few new towels to replace those Lucky had eaten when his back was turned (in plum, to match the bathmat) and a couple of hand towels: one to replace what he’d repeatedly shoved into the toilet drain and one more, just because a spare never hurt. While he was browsing through the bathroom supplies, he saw a matching plum toothbrush holder and soap dish that also had white arrows on them, so he added them to his load and tried to get out before his wallet took any further hits.

The pair of bath poufs (one bright purple and one deep blue) were both an impulse and fairly cheap.

*****

It had been eleven days since Clint had left. Phil looked around the bathroom to see what else needed to happen and decided that it was hard to actually _see_ around the room. A new ceiling light would easily solve that, and, while he was at it, Phil decided to replace the medicine cabinet for one with a mirror that he could actually see to shave in. And maybe a light bar to go above the vanity. He couldn’t figure out how Clint, with his fine, blond whiskers, could ever manage to shave in front of the mirror as it had been before. In the evenings, on Clint’s couch, Phil could barely see those whiskers. He only knew they were there by the faint golden haze around Clint’s handsome face. By the scratching on Phil’s neck when Clint kissed along his throat, bit at his collarbones, nibbled at his chest. And oh _Lord_ , there wasn’t time to daydream about Clint and his whiskers and what they felt like on Phil’s skin.

Clint could be home at any moment, and Phil didn’t want to leave him with a half-finished project and a mess.

He called for a car and headed back to the hardware store. 

“I bet you have the nicest bathroom in the neighborhood,” Triesta from paint said to him when he passed her on the way to the checkout. 

“Oh, it’s not my bathroom.” Phil snagged a couple of boxes of lightbulbs off a nearby shelf, smiling warmly at her. “It’s my boyfriend’s. I’m apartment- and dog-sitting while he’s out of town.”

“Ah.” Triesta squinted slightly. “So it’s a surprise for him?”

“Um.”

Phil hadn’t really thought about that. On the one hand, he hadn’t _set out_ to surprise Clint with a new bathroom. On the other, he suspected it _would_ be a helluva surprise. To leave home and come back to a full bathroom reno. 

“I…I have to go.” Phil rushed to the checkout line and bolted from the store as soon as he was able.

Back at the apartment, boxes of new lighting and spools of wire, half-empty boxes of tile and fully empty bags from the department store sprinkled around him, Phil began to have a moment of uncertainty that rapidly scaled the heights of panic.

He hadn’t _meant_ to completely change Clint’s bathroom. In fact, he couldn’t _exactly_ identify the moment when “fixing a few loose tiles” turned into “full bathroom renovation with new fixtures.” Really, if he looked back on his nearly two weeks at Clint’s apartment, the progression from bathing the dog to a whole new bathroom made a certain amount of sense. It was only when looked at from the perspective of an outsider that it started to seem utterly insane. Still, he couldn’t very well leave it the way it was. Clint might not appreciate having to put up his own light fixture. 

Especially since Phil had already removed the old one.

*****

Wiring in an old building might best be left for the professionals.

*****

Singed arm hair did _not_ smell good.

*****

Something buzzed. Insistently. Determinedly. Loudly.

Phil fought his way out of a dream that involved having a picnic with Clint and Lucky in a park somewhere– all sunset-pink sky and fluffy dream clouds and vivid green grass– and out from under rather a lot of dog. For the first time in nearly as long as Phil could remember, he didn’t wake disoriented, vaguely uncertain what view he would see when his eyes opened. His phone buzzed again from the nightstand, and Phil perched his glasses on his nose in order to read the screen. He nearly dropped the phone in his haste to get it to his face.

“Clint?” His voice came out sleep-rough and scratchy. “Babe?”

“Hey there, handsome,” Clint drawled, lazy and warm. “Didn’t mean to wake you up, but I’mma ‘bout to take off to fly us all home. It’s been a helluva couple weeks here. How’re you doing?”

“I’m…I’m…” Phil sat up and rubbed a hand over his face, knocking his glasses into his lap. “I’m a lot better, hearing your voice.”

“Aww, baby,” Clint’s voice took on an extra tease, and Phil felt himself perk up all over in response. 

All over. He looked down at his lap, willing everything down there to behave. 

“You been missing me that much?” Clint’s teasing took on a sharper edge, like Phil’s answer really mattered to him. It goaded Phil into a blunt level of emotional honesty that he normally avoided quite neatly.

“So much. It’s been…It’s been a long couple weeks.” Phil sighed, leaning back on the pillows and looping his arm around Lucky’s neck when the dog crawled up to investigate Phil’s shoulder with his cold nose. “I…I don’t think I realized how much time we’ve spent together until you weren’t here at all.”

“God, Phil.” Clint sounded suddenly breathless, all traces of playfulness drained away in an instant. “I have missed you, too. So much. It’s like…God! I’m gonna push this ‘jet all the way home, ya know? I have a couple things to take care of when I get back to the City, but then…I mean, if you’re available…I…Could we have supper tonight or something? At my place? And would you…maybe…spend the night with me?”

“I’d like that, Clint.” Phil hoped Clint could hear the smile in his voice. Lord knew it was big enough for Clint to see no matter how far away he was. It drew Phil’s lips up tightly and made his cheeks ache with the strain of it. “I can’t wait.”

“Me, either, babe.” Clint sighed, tired but happy-sounding, and Phil suddenly ached to pull him close, smell his neck and taste his lips. “You been getting along okay otherwise?”

“It was a weird couple weeks,” Phil admitted carefully. “I lo–“

“Crap!” Clint’s shout interrupted, then his voice sounded quieter, further away from the phone. “Fine, Tony! I’m coming!” Clint sighed again, just as tired but less pleased. “I love you, too, babe. See you tonight. Bye!”

The line went dead before Phil could formulate any response at all. _Love_ was not the four-letter L-word he’d been about to say. No, he’d almost just admitted to Clint that he’d lost Lucky, found Lucky, and accidentally managed to remodel Clint’s bathroom in trying to care for the dog. _Love_ was not a word Phil had really thought about much, in relation to Clint. Or himself. Or himself with Clint. Phil held his phone in his lap, glaring at it blearily in the dark until the screen turned off.

Clint…Clint had said he _loved_ Phil. That he loved Phil _too_. Which implied that he, Clint, felt that he, Phil _did_ in fact love him, Clint. 

Did he? Either he? Either way the love went?

Sure, he _cared_ about Clint, missed him when he was gone, was happy when he came home. During Phil’s last away mission, he’d been able to text Clint at night. Somehow, those goofy selfies Clint had sent, his face smashed beside Lucky’s or Lucky licking his cheek, had been the thing that had settled him after a day pretending to be a suave, mysterious arms dealer. Looking at the bright affection in Clint’s grey eyes, the devoted admiration of Clint in Lucky’s, Phil was able to shake off the gross, oily feeling he got from associating with criminals and mobsters. 

Phil rolled to his side, pressing his face into the thick ruffle of Lucky’s ruff. “I don’t know what to do with your person, Lucks.”

And then Phil pictured how he’d feel if Clint left him. If Phil hadn’t been able to get Lucky back, how heartbroken Phil would have felt to tell Clint that Lucky was gone. If Clint didn’t appreciate leaving his apartment in one condition and coming home to find a whole new bathroom. If Clint maybe found Phil too overbearing, too controlling, too much Phil for him.

Losing Clint would more than hurt. Phil would be devastated to lose the warmth of Clint’s smile, the delight of Clint’s laugh, the taste of his kisses, the heat of his skin. Unlike with any past lover, Phil wouldn’t be able to go out on the weekend, have a few drinks, make bad decisions with someone pretty, and be over it by Monday. Losing Clint would be a grief, a loss of truly epic proportions. 

Yeah, Phil _did_ love Clint. He loved Clint enough to take to the streets at night to find a dog. He loved Clint enough to take time off and care for the dog. Loved him enough to take off work. Loved him enough to want to be with him for…well, forever. 

Was that ridiculous? After just six months together, _could_ Phil be so certain? And, even if Phil was sure, what would Clint think?

Phil decided he should sit on it for a bit, see how Clint reacted to the bathroom. 

In the meantime, Phil had a man on the way home; scones were an absolute necessity.

*****

Phil sat on the stool on the far side of the bar from the oven. The traitorous, evil, possibly demonic oven. A tray of scones sat in front of him, one of them cracked open to show the gooey, still wet center. The others were all flipped up, blackened bottoms staring accusingly at him, as if demanding to know why they’d been forced into the scorching flames of hell. Or Clint’s oven with the dodgy thermostat. Same thing. 

“Maybe we should have done the kitchen instead of the bathroom,” Phil told Lucky, leaning down to pat the dog’s head. Lucky whimpered softly in reply, and Phil bobbed his head in qualified agreement. “Probably right. At least with the bathroom, he might not notice right away. At least I’ll be able to get a kiss before he throws me out.”

Lucky licked his fingers delicately, tail swooshing against the floor.

“I don’t know, pup.” Phil sighed and leaned his elbow on the bar, putting his chin in his palm. Lucky licked his other hand again, on Phil’s knuckles this time. “I just…I didn’t really think about Clint when I started. I mean, I wanted to fix what I broke, because Clint tries so hard to take care of his things. I guess…I guess he’s probably not used to having things, given how he grew up. And then I just come in and start…All willy-nilly and everything.”

Lucky leaned against Phil’s leg, tail moving faster. 

“Guess it’s probably best to just come out and tell him. About losing you. And finding you. And what I did to his bathroom.” Phil prodded the gooey mass in the center of the broken scone. “Just like pulling a bandaid off. Tell him straight upfront. Plainly. And then see what he has to say.”

Lucky sat up and looked at the leash rack, tail wagging slowly.

“You need out, fella?” Phil stood up, sparing the oven and the tray of ruined scones one more glare. Lucky ran in front of him, jumping and barking happily, toward the door. He dropped to his bottom and panted happily up into Phil’s face while he hooked the leash to his collar, and then he waited in the hall while Phil locked the door, not even having to wiggle the key any more. Phil had finally figured out just the right distance to press the key in to make the lock work easily. 

Just in time to go back to his own place. Without the dog. Or Clint.

It took the rest of the walk (including bagging and tossing the doggy mess) to make Phil stop moping about that thought. And then he got back up the stairs to Clint’s apartment and forgot all about leaving. The door was, once again, just barely open.

Phil froze, hand reaching for his waistband, brain already putting together a plan to deal with whatever threat waited in the apartment for him, as well as plans to keep Lucky safe. He would be able to go in, weapon drawn, and kick the door shut behind himself, leaving the dog in the hall alone, but safe. Inside, he would take care of whatever threat awaited, grab his cell off the counter, call for backup, and get back into the hall to keep Lucky from running way. Then he discovered the flaw in his plan.

He didn’t have his gun.

It had been neatly tucked away in Clint’s nightstand drawer, clip, spare clip, and a box of bullets beside it. Downstairs in Clint’s place, Phil was adequately armed with the various weapons Clint had stashed away. _Worst_ case scenario, he'd have grabbed the bow over the sofa and the arrow from one of the butts at the far end of the room (ignoring it’s sarcastic little post-it note that read _katie-kate got lucky_ ). While he didn’t have Clint draw or accuracy, he could at least be certain of sticking the pointy end in a place where it would slow down a bad guy. 

Something thumped in the apartment, and Phil decided to trust to luck and instinct. He dove for the door, rolling through the entry. As he popped up right beside the bar, he realized exactly how dumb he’d been and exactly how much he overreacted. Thick, muscular arms looped around his shoulders, pulling him tightly against a broad, hard chest, and the smell of gunpowder and grass, smoke and sweat soaked into his senses, making his dizzy with relief and joy.

“Now that’s the kind of greeting a guy could get used to,” Clint murmured into his ear. Phil wanted to come up with some kind of suave, sexy answer, but gave up on talking in favor of kissing as Clint’s mouth covered his own. 

Clint tasted like fresh coffee and comfort, and Phil wrapped his arms tightly around Clint’s ribs and held on hard. For a few minutes, he forgot about missing dogs and redecorated bathrooms, forgot about feeling so at home he didn’t grab his sidearm when he went out, forgot about burned scones and the wistful wish he hadn’t even admitted to himself about staying right where he was– with Clint and with Lucky and with a fresh bathroom and a malevolent stove. For a few minutes, all Phil did was feel, hands clinging tightly to Clint’s battered hoodie while Clint cupped the back of Phil’s head gently with one hand and traced his spine with the other. 

Phil had a couple of brief thoughts about shoving Clint up against the bookshelf or back against the breakfast bar, but Lucky interrupted before things could get too out of hand. He whined softly and leaned against Phil’s leg; Phil let go of Clint on instinct and reached down to gently pat Lucky’s head. Clint pulled out of the kiss slowly, a wide, sleepy smile on his face, eyelids fluttering against his cheeks.

“Hi, babe.” He kissed the tip of Phil’s nose and then bumped their noses together. “I am _really_ glad to see you.” He leaned back further and looked down at the dog. “And hello! Who is this lovely girl!”

“What?” Phil gaped at him. “That’s…Girl? What?”

Phil leg go of Clint completely and stepped backward, putting one hand on Lucky’s head, feeling a quite inexplicable urge to cover Lucky’s ears so he wouldn’t hear himself being disowned by his person. 

“This is Lucky.”

Clint tilted his head to the left and squinted, like Phil was the one losing his mind. 

“No, Phil.” Clint squatted down and reached out to catch the dog by his– her?– purple collar, running one hand down Lucky’s silky ear. “A, this is a girl. That’s why she’s got bows. B, she’s got a _much_ longer coat. And C, she’s missing the wrong eye. Where’d she come from?”

Phil absolutely couldn’t process the words Clint said to him. He closed his eyes, trying to picture that first day, when Lucky had pinned him to the wall and panted, open-mouthed and happy, into his face. He could see Lucky’s paws on his hips, yellow…very yellow, not so fluffy as they’d been when Lucky had put one paw carefully on Phil’s knee as they sat together on the couch. But the groomer…the special conditioning agents in their house-recipe, all-natural, animal-friendly and vegan shampoo. That…that might make a dog appear fluffier. And, as for the bows, any California-Transplant hippie place like that one wouldn’t hesitate to put bows in the ears of any dog that came through. Right? _RIght?!_

And then Phil got to memory-Lucky’s face. And…oh. On no. Lucky _was_ missing his left eye. _His_ left eye. Not the eye on Phil’s left. And Lucky, the Lucky who had politely sniffed Clint’s hand and then backed up carefully behind Phil’s leg, was missing the right one.

Phil’s legs gave out, and he thumped to the floor with a pathetic sort of noise. Lucky immediately put her head against his shoulder, whimpering softly.

“Phil?” Clint curled down easily, crossing his legs and reaching out to rest a hand on Phil’s wrist. Lucky growled at him and he hastily snatched his hand away. “Baby? Come on. Talk to me. What’s going on?”

Phil just shook his head. He could feel tears starting to build up, could feel the sudden urge to run out the door and never return. He’d…he’d done so much that week. And all of it, every bit of it was for nothing. Because Phil hadn’t _actually_ found Lucky. The dog he’d been caring for, the dog he took off work to care for, it– _she_ was the wrong dog.

Suddenly, Phil froze. He surged forward, grabbing Clint by the shoulders and shaking him, just a little.

“ _Oh my God, where is Lucky?!_ ” Phil gave Clint another shake and jumped to his feet, ready to run out the door.

“Phil!” Clint pushed himself up and caught Phil by the wrist. “Phil! Baby! He’s okay. He’s fine. Kate got him. She took him with her on her trip up north. I thought we….Did we talk about that? Anyway, I left you a note. I just figured asking you to watch a dog for a week or more was a little much. I mean, you have work, so what if you’d been called out?”

“But I took two weeks off off,” Phil mumbled miserably. “After Lucky got out, I just…I didn’t want him, her, him…. I didn’t want the dog to escape again. So I took time off. And then he– she was so dirty when I found him that I tried to shower with him. He wasn’t going to fit in your sink. And it knocked some tiles off, so I tried to fix them.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry. They do that.” Clint reached up to rub the back of his neck, looking a little sheepish. “I’ve been meaning to get started on the bathroom. It’s…it’s pretty gross. But I just can’t–“

“It’s all done now,” Phil told him, waving airily. “And where did you leave a note?” 

Clint pointed down to the target butts. “Over there. That Kate–“

“Got Lucky.” Phil finished with him. He felt himself blushing. “Oh. I…I didn’t…I thought that was about the shot. I mean, I hoped it wasn’t about her, er, intimate relationships. But Lucky! He was here when I got here. And then I went to get him more food, and the door was open, and he was gone.” 

He shook his head and wished he could shut up, but it didn’t seem like it was going to happen any time soon. 

“So I searched the apartment and then I got everyone in the building to help me search inside the building, but we couldn’t find him, and then I went out to search, and it was very late at night, and I had to stop a couple muggings and break up a couple fights and then I just gave up and there he was. I thought. But I was wrong. So I got him home and then I didn’t know how he’d unlocked the door and gotten out, so I stayed with him. And then I tried to fix the tile and broke your walls, so I replaced the wallboard and then the tiles, and then I was tired of tiling, so I bought you a shower liner, and then the rest of it looked kinda dingy. And then I broke your toilet, so I had to get a new one and the sink, well, if the rest of it was going, and then the cabinet because Lucky ate a towel– which makes so much more sense now that I know it’s not actually Lucky. So I bought more towels and then–“

Clint cut him off with a hand over his mouth.

“You…you redecorated my bathroom? And took off work to watch my dog?”

“Wasn’t your dog, though.” Phil shook Clint off and turned away, looking across the apartment to the street outside the windows. “So I–“

Clint spun him around and kissed him. Hard. Very hard. Very deeply. Phil clung to his shoulders and kissed back, not sure what he was doing. Not sure what Clint was doing. But determined to get some of those kisses as long as he could.

“You, Phil Coulson,” Clint told him breathlessly when he broke away to lean their foreheads together, “are absolutely the best boyfriend ever, and you are my very favorite person in the entire world. I love you so goddamned much it hurts.”

Phil had an answer to that. He was sure that, if he could find all the addled parts of his brain, he would be able to come up with something to say. Having Clint right there, staring at him like that, smiling like _that_ , Phil gave up and just hauled Clint back into another kiss. It might have gotten out of hand, but Lucky, er, Not-Lucky whimpered again by Phil’s knee.

“I think your dog is jealous,” Clint murmured, smiling against Phil’s mouth. Phil licked his teeth, because they were right there and Clint looked like he’d taste of happiness.

He did.

“Not my dog.” Phil reached down and delicately patted Lucky– Not-Lucky on the head. She smiled up at him, tongue lolling out the side, tail swishing happily. “I…I can’t have a dog in my building.”

Clint hummed thoughtfully and then shrugged. “We’ll figure something out. Now take me to this new bathroom, yeah?”

*****  
Phil woke the next morning lazy and relaxed in a way he hadn’t felt since…since before Clint had left. His muscles had that heaviness that came from having been exerted in a good way, and his skin smelled so much of Clint that it was all Phil could do to keep from curling back under the covers and just snorting in the smell of the two of them together. There was a heavy weight on his left leg and an even heavier weight on his right arm. Phil carefully pulled his limbs free and stretched with a mighty yawn.

“Oh good.” Clint rolled over, waiting until Phil finished his stretch to settle in with his head on Phil’s shoulder. “You’re up. Been wondering how long I had to wait to tell you good morning.”

“It is a good morning.” Phil didn’t even feel sappy when he said it, too content to care. Clint beamed up at him, and Phil gave in to say the words he hadn’t yet been quite brave enough to. “I love you.”

Clint’s face turned pink with pleasure and he smiled, crooked and warm and so, so sexy that Phil couldn’t resist rolling him onto his back and showing him just how much he appreciated that look. Clint sighed happily and let him, staying loose and pliant and kissable while Phil set about taking him apart.

Later, after they had taken Not-Lucky for a walk and shared a pot of coffee between them, Phil finally brought up his biggest concern.

“So I don’t know what to do about the dog.” He patted her head gently, and her tail waved across the floor like a silky golden dust mop. “My building doesn’t allow pets, but I don’t want to just…just put her back on the street.”

Clint watched him across the bar, eyes sharp while he chewed his lip. “I suppose,” he began slowly, “I can probably find her a good home, if she gets along with Lucky while I search.”

“Oh.” Phil unaccountably found his eyes starting to fill with tears. He blinked hard and carefully scratched Not-Lucky behind one ear, just the way he’d seen Clint do to her earlier. Her eyes drifted to half-mast and she rumbled happily, leaning heavily against his shin. “I…I suppose that makes sense. We should…she should have a family, I suppose. She’s…she’s been a good dog.”

“I can see that.” Clint hummed thoughtfully and then gave Phil his brightest smile. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure something out for her. In fact, I have a pretty good idea. I’ll tell you about it later, yeah? I just need to check on a few things first.”

Phil agreed glumly and kept scratching the dog. 

Lucky came home shortly after they’d had lunch at a nearby diner. Kate came in, punched Clint in the shoulder and hugged Phil hard. She then dropped to her knees to get some pets in on Not-Lucky. 

“I guess that’s all my fault,” Kate said, when she’d heard the story about how the dog came to be in the loft. “I got a call for assistance from America about the time I was hooking Lucky’s leash on him, and I guess I didn’t latch the door. I didn’t even think to lock it. Sorry.”

Phil forced himself to smile at Kate as Not-Lucky came back to the couch for a head-pat. “It’s okay. I mean, Clint got a new bathroom out of it, right?”

Clint laughed brightly and let go of Actual-Lucky’s ears with one hand to squeeze Phil’s knee.

“Yeah.” He smiled at Phil and leaned over to kiss his cheek. “I got something really good out of it. I got to see how much you care.”

Phil felt his face heat, and both Hawkeyes laughed at him, very gently.

*****

That night, as they got ready for bed, Clint gathered Phil gently into his arms and kissed his neck. 

“I guess this is your last night as a free man, huh?” He kissed Phil’s earlobe and then his cheekbone. “Back to your scary men in black masters tomorrow, huh?”

Phil sighed and stepped out of Clint’s arms, turning around to pet Lucky’s ears. Lucky already had claimed his spot on the bed, and Not-Lucky stood at the foot of the bed, waiting permission to jump up. 

“I guess so.” Phil smiled over his shoulder at Clint, trying to look less conflicted than he felt. “I mean, it’ll be good to get back to work, but…I’ll miss this. Miss you. Miss…miss her.” He patted the bed beside Lucky, and Not-Lucky jumped up, wagging slowly. 

“We’ll miss you , too,” Clint promised, looping his arm around Phil’s waist and then patting first one dog and the other with his free hand. He tucked down to rest his chin on Phil’s shoulder. “I wish…”

He trailed off, and Phil thought he could guess what Clint wished; he, too, wished he could just stay. Forever. Six months in was way too early to say that, though. No matter how fast the _I love yous_ had come.

*****

Phil walked into a shitshow at the office the next morning. Thankfully, Clint had given him such a good sendoff that morning that he managed not to get actually crabby about the mess until the three p.m. slump hit. By then, he’d gotten a lock on the field team’s position, made certain they were all alive and mostly uninjured, and had guided them to a secure location to wait for the extraction team he’d sent out. He ducked into his office for a quick reapplication of deodorant, a cup of coffee, and a handful of the Girl Scout Thin Mints he kept in his desk. He also took the opportunity to have a short text conversation with Clint, typing one-handed while he fed himself his snack with the other.

_You: Been a crazy morning here. Good thing I had a few hickeys under my collar to remind me of you. How’re the dogs?_

_The Best Hawkeye: Took NotLucky to the vet to check for a microchip. Also checked with local shelters to see if they’ve had a call for her as missing. Nothing yet. Gotta find her a better name. Too confusing with two Luckys. Come by for supper tonight and I’ll see if I can find a few more places to leave marks. Have an idea re NotLuckys new home. ILU_

_You: <3_

Phil looked at the little heart emoji for a minute before sending it. A little cutesy, probably, but he doubted Clint would notice, let alone mind. Cute seemed to be Clint’s primary mode of operation in a relationship. Phil found it surprisingly irresistible. 

While Phil was downing the last swallow from his mug, his phone buzzed with another incoming message. It also contained a heart. Along with an eggplant, a peach, another eggplant, a potato, and exploding rockets. So either Clint was having being called out to Avenge fruits and vegetables, or he had some sexy plans for that night. 

Phil really hoped it was sexy plans and not sentient produce.

Again. 

He also _did_ wonder what a potato had to do with it.

*****

That night, after the dogs had been called back from their banishment to the ground floor, Phil curled tightly to Clint’s side, fingers tangling in the silky fur of Not-Lucky’s ear, and tried to figure out how to express his reluctance to send her to another home. Clint sat up to give Lucky some rougher love than Phil gave Not-Lucky, then he pulled Not-Lucky to him and wooled her ears until her tail waved brightly and her tongue hung out in her happy smile.

“She needs a name,” Clint told Phil, looping his arm around Not-Lucky’s neck and smiling down at him. “Other than Lucky. That’s getting really confusing around here, but she won’t answer to anything else I call her.”

Phil sat up beside him, and the dog in question crawled into his lap; he was very grateful for the blanket that protected his tender bits.

“It’ll probably have to rhyme,” Phil said slowly, carefully gathering both of her ears up the way Clint had been holding them. He tugged gently, first on one, then on the other, and she laughed up at him and then tipped her nose up to lick his chin. Phil laughed and hugged her tightly.

“I am _not_ going to call her ‘Fucky,’” Clint said flatly, and Phil cracked up. Both dogs barked happily at his laughter, and then Clint joined in with his own bright laugh, nearly a bark itself. 

Phil finally giggled himself to silence and let go of the dog to hug the man beside him instead. 

“That was not _ever_ on the list, Clint.” Phil kissed Clint’s cheekbone and tugged on him until he curled up, nearly in Phil’s lap. “I have gone over all kinds of choices. Mucky or Yucky are absolutely out. Not since she saw the groomer, anyway.”

Clint snickered and kissed Phil’s shoulder, lips tracing a little more than absolutely necessary. It made Phil shiver, even though he knew they wouldn’t be getting up to anything else that night. At least…not without a nap. Clint’s emoji-driven plan had been very effective at wearing out both of their libidos. 

“What about…Plucky?” Clint reached down to pat Not-Lucky’s head. “Huh? You think you could be a Plucky?”

“No.” Phil made a face and Clint laughed at him. “Absolutely not.”

“Ducky, then. She’s yellow.” Clint pushed up far enough to pet both dogs. “Ducky and Lucky!”

Phil must’ve made a face again, because Clint and Lucky both laughed at him.

“Alrighty, then,” Clint leaned back against the pillows, crossing his arms behind his head. “What spectacular name have you come up with for your dog?”

“She’s not _my_ dog,” Phil said, a little more sharply than he intended. “She’s…I can’t have pets. Not in my building.”

“Phil–“ Clint sat up and reached for him, but Phil held up one hand. If Clint hugged him right then, he’d probably cry, and he wasn’t exactly certain why.

“Bucky.” Phil reached out to pat Not-Lucky– _Bucky’s_ head, and she leaned toward his touch, smiling at him with her one warm, brown eye. “I think we should call her Bucky. I mean, until she goes to a new home.”

His throat thickened up, and he couldn’t say anything else. Clint sat silent behind him, but Phil could feel the weight of his stare like an itch on his shoulder. Phil sniffed hard and wiped one hand across his eyes. He wasn’t crying. He _wasn’t_. Maybe he was allergic to dog hair.

The bed shifted as Clint sat forward, and his beautifully muscled arms looped around Phil’s stomach, pulling him back into a tight embrace. 

“There’s another option, you know,” Clint said quietly, breath tickling Phil’s ear. 

“Better than Bucky?” Phil sniffed again and turned his face away slightly. He knew it was useless to hope that Clint hadn’t seen the tear that had gotten away from him. 

“Nah, I don’t care what we name her. I mean, I pray Barnes never hears about a dog named after him, because he’ll be insufferable.” Clint jostled Phil gently. “But there’s a better option than giving her to someone else. I think, Phil. Babe. I think she should be with the person she’s chosen. And, since you can’t move her in with you, I think you should maybe, uh, you know. Move in here. With her. And Lucky. And me.”

Phil pulled free of Clint’s arms; he had to see for this conversation. He had to see Clint’s face. See if he meant it. If he meant…

“To live with you?” Phil grabbed Clint’s hand, needing something solid to cling to. He didn’t know much that he found more solid, more grounding than contact with Clint. “You mean, like…?”

“Yeah. Like live with, live with.” Clint squeezed Phil’s fingers, looking a little red and damp around the eyes himself. “I mean, the place next door is empty. It’s uninhabitable, but empty. So we could maybe, you know, knock out a couple walls. Double the space. At least I know that _you_ know how to remodel.”

Phil felt his face heat, but he laughed at the gentle joke at his own expense. 

“I know we haven’t been together all that long,” Clint started, watching his fingers toy with Phil’s, “but I know we click. That we just…we just work. You don’t get pissy with me when my job calls me away and I have to cancel plans–“

“I do it to you just as often,” Phil answered, pulling his hands free to cup Clint’s face in both palms. “It’d be stupid to get mad. It’s just the job.”

“And you _get_ that.” Clint gripped both of Phil’s wrists, and Phil went with the pull and kissed him. “You get the job and how it’s not _just_ a job when it’s being more than a job.”

Phil nodded, feeling his own lips twist in a wry smirk. That was a thing he understood better than most. And had never– before Clint– found a person who was both willing to date him and who accepted that fact about Phil and his job.

“Plus, if we’re in here together,” Clint waved his hand in a scattered arc that might mean the building or the loft or the bed or their general existence, “then we can see each other a little more often.”

Phil kissed Clint again. He was going to say yes. He really was. He knew he would, if Clint ever stopped saying words that melted his heart into goo.

“And, Phil, _no one_ has ever gone above and beyond for me like you did over the last couple weeks.” Clint looked up at Phil, tears still in his eyes, but his whole being _beaming_. “You went out to find my _dog_ , Phil. And you’re not really a dog person. But…but you did it. You even took time off work to keep an eye on my dog, just so nothing would happen while I was away.”

“Wasn’t even your dog,” Phil mumbled, face going hot again.

“But you thought it was, babe.” Clint surged forward, tackling Phil down against the pillows. “You thought it was my dog, and you had no idea what you were doing, but you _did it_. And I got a snazzy new bathroom out of it.”

Phil started to laugh, arms curling around Clint’s back and fingers tracing along some of the curving scars he could feel. Clint shivered at the touch, and Phil stretched his neck up to bite Clint’s bottom lip. They lost track of the conversation for a few minutes, until the dogs got annoyed and jumped down off the bed.

“So you gotta move in,” Clint told him, pulling away, breathless and even more rumpled than before (which was quite a feat). “You made the bathroom pretty, so you should be here to enjoy it.”

Phil touched the side of Clint’s face, smoothed his hand over Clint’s rumpled blond spikes, traced the side of his neck. 

“There’s just one problem” Phil schooled his face into his most solemn expression. “Your oven, Clint. It _murders_ baked goods. I can’t live with an oven that won’t bake properly.”

Clint started to laugh, diving into the bed to cover Phil’s body heavily with his own, kissing him sloppily through giggles.

“Baby, you can have any oven you want.” Clint pushed himself up on one elbow to grin down at Phil. “I’ll even try to be here to help you install it, yeah?”

*****

Phil climbed the stairs slowly, well aware that he hadn’t showered in over forty-eight hours. He was disgusting and smoky and utterly exhausted, but he was so glad to be home he could nearly taste it. He put the key in and turned it without even having to wiggle it around any, opened the door, and nearly hit the ground as an over-excited ball of fluffy golden fur flung itself at his legs.

“Hullo, Bucks,” Phil said softly, dropping to his knees to put his arms around her. She shivered with glee and licked his face, trailing little whimpers and slobber all around his neck and collar. Pulling her in for a harder hug, he closed his eyes and pushed his face into her neck, breathing in the warm scent of freshly washed dog. “God, I’m glad to see you girl.”

He sometimes wondered, leaving Bucky there with Clint and Lucky, if she would still love him best when he came back. Clint was more exciting with her than Phil was, for certain. He took her for adventures and gave her toppings off his pizza. He let both dogs pile on top of him on the couch every evening, and forgot to make them mind their manners when people came by. But somehow, every time he returned, Bucky still loved Phil above all others. It didn’t even seem to be for the hotdogs he got her every time they took a lazy nighttime ramble around the neighborhood. 

“Can anyone else get in on that greeting,” Clint’s voice drawled from the couch, “or is it a one-man, one-dog kind of show?”

“You’ll get your turn,” Phil answered, leaning his forehead against Bucky’s and gazing deeply into her eye. He’d know that eye anywhere, know the flecks of gold and the look of love. Never again would he mistake any dog for _his_ dog. Not even the other dog he’d come to love. And all because he loved a man before he knew it.

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to Laura Kaye for her hilarious description of mistaken animal identity that made this fic possible. Actually, that made it probable. Without you, darling, this would be impossible. Another million thanks to both Laura Kaye and Kathar for their impressive beta work and constant encouragement (or heckling. Either way, it made this a RIOT to write). A million loves to JHSC for the impressive and astonishingly awesome thing you just did; you're like, a badass hero all by yourself.
> 
> The end of You Sing Harmonies is coming. This just...distracted me a little bit. Drafting is done. Beta is happening. Edits will finish. And it will post by about May 14.
> 
> Love and hugs and happy fluff to all.
> 
> (Look, Ma! No porn!)


End file.
